Into The Lion's Den
by What's'SupWitChu
Summary: Mycroft is visiting home when he finds Sherlock has runaway after taking money from Mycroft's wallet. Their mother is worried, and Mycroft finds himself in a dangerous situation when he goes to find Sherlock in a notorious drug den. Warning: Mentions of drug use.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hey everyone! Thanks to all of you who have been reading, following, favouriting and reviewing my stories so far, and if you are new, then hey! ^_^ **

**This story is slightly inspired by the scene in 'His Last Vow' when John finds Sherlock in the drug den. However, I have given it a younger Sherlock and Mycroft twist, I really do just love writing about them ;) There will be a second chapter depending on how you find this one, so I hope you enjoy! Again, I apologise deeply for anything obviously out of character. **

**If you have time to review then please do, I love hearing from you :) xx**

* * *

Mycroft could not believe it; he did not _want_ to believe it. First of all, he did not want to believe that his own little brother would take money from him after Mycroft left his wallet unattended for less than 10 minutes, but he also did not want to believe that he would find Sherlock in the place he was currently heading to on the cold, dark and gloomy night; he sincerely hoped the ambiance was not part of some cruel pathetic fallacy.

Mycroft was 23 years old, a young budding politician who had simply returned home to visit his parents and Sherlock as he had not seen them in so long. Although he would not admit it, he was actually quite looking forward to seeing his 16 year old brother again, as it turned out other politicians could all be so dull, and no one understood the world the way Mycroft did like Sherlock; his brother was his closest interluctual equal, Mycroft would admit.

However, what was not very intelligent in Mycroft's opinion – in fact it was downright stupid – was that according to Mummy, Sherlock had taken on certain habits to cope when he could no longer stand his brain moving at a million miles an hour.

That was what Mycroft believed made him superior to his brother; he could control his emotions and still interact with others very well, he could keep his mind flowing at a steady past, his thoughts calm and calculated, whilst Sherlock liked to jump in head first so to speak and not really think of the consequences and how they might affect other people.

Part of the reason Mycroft had gone to visit was to see if he could dissuade his brother from using cigarettes and more than possibly drugs to deal with his whizzing head, that taking a more thought-out and systematic approach was the answer. Just a week before Mummy had called Mycroft in tears because Sherlock had stumbled home, verbally incoherent and covered in mysterious bruises.

On the first day Mycroft was home, Sherlock had not even come to greet him; he just stayed shut up in his room all day. This made Mummy even more upset because she remembered how Sherlock use to practically cling to Mycroft when they were little, and now he would not even come out to see the big brother he had so greatly admired. She was also concerned he was not eating and sleeping enough either and so when it came to dinnertime, Mycroft thought a more stern approach was needed.

"Sherlock" he said in a firm voice as he knocked on his brother's bedroom door. "Come downstairs right now, you have no reason to…" Mycroft was surprised when the door started to creak open on its own accord.

Frowning, he pushed the door open and stepped inside, being very careful not to trip over any of the books or parts of experiments which were scattered over the floor.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft questioned the situation now, though he would not yet admit to concern.

He hurried over to the window where the curtains were billowing in the wind. _Scuff marks, probably from shoes _he observed on the drainpipe beside the window, and then spotted a strand of blue fabric which he plucked from a crack in the sill; _probably from Sherlock's scarf._

"Damn it all, Sherlock" Mycroft said under his breath as zigzagged his way back out of the room.

He was passing his own room when he realised the door was open after he swore he had left it closed. He went in and found his wallet lying empty on the bed, and the anger inside him almost bubbled to the surface – his own brother had robbed him! But no, Mycroft was calm and collected man, he would simply go and explain things to Mummy and then drag Sherlock home himself.

"No luck then?" Violet asked sadly as Mycroft returned without his brother in tow.

"He's not in his room" Mycroft said "by the looks of things he escaped out the window, not that he was ever trapped" he left out the part about the missing money, because despite everything Mycroft still had this insistent urge to protect his brother but also not upset their mother further – he would deal with Sherlock himself.

"Oh, Lord" Violet sighed as she ran her hands down her face "I so greatly despair of that boy sometimes"

"As do I" Mycroft said "But we cannot give up on him" he said, more to his own surprise than his mother's.

There was a part of him which wanted to believe that the little boy who would come scuttling into his room seeking comfort after a practically harsh storm was still within Sherlock somewhere, and Mycroft hoped he still had the ability to get through to his brother and be there like he used to. However, it would be difficult, as they had both changed a lot since then.

"Bring him home, Mycroft" Violet said desperately and Mycroft gave a firm nod.

"I will, please try not to worry" Mycroft said, giving his mother a small reassuring smile as that was all he could offer and really was capable of offering. "I'll be back soon, with Sherlock, I promise" Mycroft reiterated more for his own sake than Mummy's before leaving the room.

"Be careful!" Violet called after her eldest son; she could not stand the thought of her boys being hurt, and they would always be children in her eyes.

"I will" Mycroft called back, though he knew with where he was going it would be a promise he could not keep, and he could not promise Sherlock would not already be down for the count.

Picking up his umbrella - the only shield and weapon Mycroft possessed – the elder Holmes brother walked out the door, opening the brolly to cover him from the deluge of rain and headed off into the dark streets of London. There was no need for running yet, Mycroft decided, Sherlock could be perfectly fine. He would keep his pace calm, like his mind, and not assume the worst; that would not get him anywhere.

Mycroft had a clue as to where Sherlock would be. He had once caught Sherlock in a rough part of the area trying to buy cigarettes off someone when the younger Holmes was just 14. Mycroft had scolded him severely and dragged him all the way home. Sherlock had mumbled a very insincere apology, proved insincere when he came back from school smelling of smoke the next day. Mycroft knew the patch was notorious for its dirty dealings and the authorities had done nothing about it; he would though, when he went back to work.

The rain started to come down harder as Mycroft rounded the last corner, finally seeing the alley corner where he had spotted his brother trying to buy cigarettes just 2 years ago. He could already see a dark figure stood outside, shivering, but still determined to inhale whatever toxic substance they had into their lungs.

Mycroft found his pace quickening the closer he got until he was running, his earlier thoughts about a calm composure left behind as he suddenly feared for his little brother after seeing the sort of people who were hanging around there. _Only Sherlock could make me run_ Mycroft thought grudgingly.

The man stood at the top of the alley did not even acknowledge Mycroft as he closed his umbrella and walked by. Mycroft felt a little self-conscious and unclean as he entered the abandoned building to the sight of clearly homeless people lying on flea ridden mattresses, moaning to themselves after coming down from their latest high, or laughing hysterically from insanity. Mycroft perished the thought of Sherlock being among these people and prayed his brother was in fact somewhere else; _anywhere_ else.

The elder Holmes moved slowly through the dark and dank building, his eyes scanning the grime covered walls, the ill people and making every relevant deduction possible. No one seemed to pay his much attention at first, but Mycroft still tightened his grip on the handle of his umbrella – it was better than no defence at all, he supposed.

"Hey!" Someone finally called after him in a thick and slurred accent. Mycroft sighed and with a roll of his eyes turned to face the staggering man "What exactly do you fink you're doin' 'ere, rich boy?" he asked as he came so close that Mycroft could smell the alcohol on his breath and see the dilated pupils of a drug abuser.

Mycroft admitted that maybe coming out in his suit was probably drawing more attention to himself than he needed, but he did not really own any other kind of clothing. Besides, he did not care what this vulgar man had to say, he just wanted to get his brother and leave.

"I am looking for my brother" Mycroft spoke steadily, showing no sign of intimidation.

"Yeah well, if 'e is 'ere he clearly don't wanna see you" the man said as he dared to give Mycroft a shove back with his dirty hand.

Mycroft stumbled, but did nothing to show discomfort, much to the man's surprise. "I did not ask for your opinion on the matter" Mycroft said, his voice low and cold "I am simply here to find my brother, Sherlock, do you know where he is?"

The man sniffed "Maybe I do, but it'll cost ya" he said.

Mycroft sighed "I don't have time for this, please move out of my way and I'll find him myself"

He tried to walk past, but the man grabbed Mycroft's arm. He was of a much bigger build and maybe a few years older than Mycroft, and by this point at least four other men had circled around them.

"We can't trust you, rich boy" the junkie went on "can't have you going and spragging to the authorities on us"

With that, Mycroft turned to the man, his eyes dark and emotionless, and for the first time the man seemed intimidated. Mycroft opened his mouth and spoke, very calmly but dangerously "I am _the _authority"

Much to Mycroft's annoyance, the man just smiled and then turned it into a deep laugh. "Is that so?" he said. "Well, let's see 'ow you 'andle this, Mr Authority" he said mockingly.

One of the men stood behind Mycroft managed to rip the umbrella from the oldest Holmes' grasp. Mycroft spun around to retaliate, but was stopped when the fist of another man swung into his left cheek. Mycroft stumbled to the side before someone else tackled him to the ground, and then there were fists and kicks flying at him from all directions.

Mycroft would say that he tried to fight back, but he had never been in a fight before and never been trained to fend for himself using his fists. He had always managed to talk his way out of situations with his well-articulated and complex words; however that clearly was not going to work this time.

Mycroft could feel himself giving in as the darkness danced in the corners of his eyes - he felt weak and humiliated and even though he managed to get in a few punches of his own it just was not enough.

Just as he was about to lose consciousness there was an echoing shout of "Stop!" but Mycroft did not see the source of the overpowering voice as he was finally sucked into darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Hey guys! Thanks for following and reading and other things XD Sorry it took so long to update, got exams to revise for :/ I hope you continue to enjoy the story :) I think another short chapter after this will be needed to finish it off. I apologise for OOCness. **

**I'd also like to remind you I am looking for prompts for Sherlock and Mycroft stories, so if you have any then please let me know!**

**If you have time to review that would be great :)**

* * *

Sherlock had taken nest in his usual corner of the run down building; the fact he even had a usual spot should have been evidence enough that his problem was getting out of hand, but Sherlock could not yet see it as a problem but as a simple release for when his restless mind just became too much.

He sat with his back against the greasy wall, his knees pulled up to his chest and thumbing his way through the pound notes he had borrowed from Mycroft's wallet; yes just borrowed Sherlock reasoned, he had every intention of giving it back. However, he knew it would not be long before Mycroft realised his money was missing and he would be on the warpath, but right now, Sherlock did not care and he just wanted to get his next hit.

So why had he just been sat staring at the money for the past ten minutes rather than obtaining some drugs with it? Surely he was not feeling…guilty? Sherlock shook his head quickly to shake off the thought. Why should he feel guilty? Mycroft had just up and abandoned him in favour of his new career, it was like Sherlock did not exist to him anymore, so surely he deserved this; this would make him notice.

After all Sherlock may have been extremely intelligent, but he was also just a 16 year old boy looking for attention from those he looked up to, but he could not look up to Mycroft anymore because Sherlock knew now that heroes did not exist. Sure, when Sherlock was 6 Mycroft had been 'Monster Slayer Extraordinaire' when the younger Holmes was scared of the shadows in his room, or a supreme storyteller to distract Sherlock from a terrifying storm outside, but Mycroft was never scared.

However Sherlock had grown up, and so had Mycroft. Heroes were supposed to stick around and be there whenever they were needed, but after Mycroft left for university he was not there for Sherlock, and therefore the younger Holmes could not see him as an idol anymore. Sherlock felt let down…and he bet that was how Mycroft felt right now.

Sherlock gritted his teeth and growled lowly as he slapped a hand to his forehead; he hated these conflicting thoughts, and he hated emotions full stop, maybe Mycroft _was_ right about that…

Raised voices suddenly caught Sherlock's attention; they were coming from further around the corner. There were… five, no, six men involved but only two of them where talking. There was one with a distinctly Cockney accent and judging by the volume and slur of his voice he was high or drunk – probably high, they were in a drug den after all. The second voice, Sherlock could not make out what they were saying, they were quieter calmer, and therefore not part of the sullen junkie group.

Suddenly there was noise of a scuffle echoing through the walls, Sherlock jumped to his feet. News of a fight around there was not unusual, but whoever was being attacked did not sound like they were fighting back and they were being unfairly ganged up on.

It was Sherlock's curiosity which finally made him leave his spot and cautiously head towards the combat. He peered around the corner, and although Sherlock could not see the victim at first he would recognise that discarded umbrella anywhere. _Mycroft. _The realisation caught Sherlock off guard and his eyes widened as a sudden chill went down his spine; that was his big brother those arseholes were beating the hell out of.

For once Sherlock had found himself acting before his brain had managed to catch up. He was running towards a group of aggressive junkies not even thinking about the consequences, his only real thoughts with Mycroft.

"Stop!" Sherlock yelled in what he hoped was a voice of assertion rather than fear. Three men looked around, but the other two continued to hit Mycroft although Sherlock could see his brother's eyes were closed from lack of consciousness. "I said stop!" Sherlock grunted as he practically jumped on the back of the ringleader and pulled him away from Mycroft.

"What the bloody 'ell" the man swore as he shook Sherlock off him and turned to look at the kid now sprawled on the floor. "Oh, it's you 'olmes" he said as Sherlock picked himself up off the floor, thunder in his eyes "Since when did you care 'bout saving other people?" the man asked.

"Since you beat my brother into unconsciousness!" Sherlock retorted as he hurried to kneel beside Mycroft.

"That's your brother?" the anonymous junkie asked. The rest of the men became bored of the current situation and wondered off to find more trouble.

"Mycroft…" Sherlock practically shouted for his brother's attention as he shook Mycroft's shoulders, ignoring the other man. "Mycroft, can you hear me?"

The older brother's face was covered in cuts and bruises, his suit all scuffed and even torn is some places. Sherlock did not like the way his stomach seemed to clench at the sight of his hurt and unconscious brother; emotions were not supposed to physically hurt where they? Mycroft was right; they were not worth the hassle.

"Oi, 'e's not gunna blab is 'e?" the junkie said.

"Leave us!" Sherlock barked as he looked back at the man with disgust.

The man just narrowed his eyes and Sherlock realised maybe raising his voice was not helping the situation and the junkie just needed some false reassurance.

"He won't tell anyone" Sherlock said, looking the man directly in the eyes in hope of conveying some kind of sincerity "I'll make sure of it"

"You better" the junkie scowled, before sniffing and turning away.

Sherlock looked back to his brother just as Mycroft let a pained groan slip from his lips.

"Mycroft…" Sherlock said quietly as he pulled his brother up into a sitting position.

Mycroft blinked his eyes open slowly and everything looked blurry. His mind was not working at full capacity either and he hated that; he could have sworn he had heard…

"Sherlock" the older Holmes said as he rested his palm on his forehead.

"Yes, I'm right here" Sherlock replied, not liking the torrent of confusion he felt in his mind as he watched his brother struggle to comprehend his surroundings.

"Idiot" Mycroft said quietly as he pulled away with his brother to regain his much needed independence.

Sherlock frowned "What?" he said in disbelief "I just saved you from…they could have killed you!"

"And I would not even be here if you were not stupid enough to endanger yourself in the first place" Mycroft retorted, though he paid little attention to his brother and was instead calculating his own injuries; nothing life threatening, though he would be stiff for a while.

"I did not endanger myself" Sherlock said through gritted teeth "I know perfectly well what I'm doing!"

"Oh yes, and what great company you keep" Mycroft said sarcastically as he struggled to stand up.

Sherlock sighed "Here, let me help you" he mumbled a little begrudgingly, before taking Mycroft's arm and draping it around his shoulders to give his brother some much needed support, though Mycroft would never admit it.

"My umbrella…" Mycroft moaned sadly as he looked back at its shattered remains.

"Seriously? You've just been beaten to a pulp and all you care about is that hunk of metal and fabric?" Sherlock asked incredulously.

"Grandfather gave it to me, I've had it since you were born" Mycroft snapped. "It was the one constant thing in my life and now it's broken"

Sherlock just smirked "Are you saying it held a lot of sentimentality?" he asked, almost teasing, as if the thought of Mycroft being able to fathom such attachment to an inanimate object was ludicrous.

Mycroft just glared at his brother and did no dignify that with an answer; Sherlock just looked smug – he knew he was right.

"We have to get home" Mycroft finally spoke up "Mummy will really start to fret soon"

"What? Mycroft look at you, we have to get you to a hospital!" Sherlock said, alarmed that his brother was able to ignore his less than healthy state.

"I'll be fine there's no serious damage" Mycroft insisted as he tried to walk away, but for some reason Sherlock was unwilling to let go of him and so slowly begin to help his brother out of the building.

"You were unconscious" Sherlock said bluntly "You could be concussed!" surely his brother wasn't really _that_ stupid?

"Well I'm not, I know I'm not" Mycroft replied calmly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes "Of course you do. However, even if we do go straight home what the hell are you going to tell Mummy?"

"I shall tell her I was mugged" Mycroft said "It's not that far from the truth"

Sherlock sighed "I really don't like this; She'll go ballistic when she sees you! Even if we don't go to the hospital now, Mummy will eventually force you"

Mycroft just scoffed at his brother "Why do you mind so much? I thought you'd be delighted if I died of a brain haemorrhage in the middle of the night"

"Not if it was my fault!" Sherlock blurted out, and quickly clamped his mouth shut when Mycroft just looked at him wide eyed in astonishment.

"I thought you said it _wasn't_ your fault?" Mycroft pressed.

"Well I … I mean…" Sherlock stuttered; he so hated being caught out like that. "You still shouldn't have come after me you fat idiot!"

Mycroft rolled his eyes; there it was, the weight jibe, Sherlock's go to response when he knew he had nothing adult worth saying.

"I wanted to make sure you weren't dead on a street corner somewhere" Mycroft explained "Plus, you took a lot of money from me"

"I didn't spend it" Sherlock mumbled as he looked down at the pavement, feeling even worse as he observed Mycroft struggling to walk in a straight line. "I…I couldn't do it, you can have it back"

"Yes, I should expect so" Mycroft replied.

The brothers continued to walk in silence, Sherlock still having to support some of Mycroft's weight, and Mycroft desperately willing for his head to stop pounding and wanting to just get himself clean again. The quiet was uncomfortable, and Sherlock felt the need to defend his actions further, though he knew Mycroft was not in the mood and would be better to talk to his brother when he was cleaned up and rested.

"Are you sure you don't want to go to the hospital? You would force me to go" Sherlock pointed out, but Mycroft was no persuaded.

"I'll be fine" the older Holmes insisted once more as they finally reached the path to their house after what seemed like ages to Mycroft. "I just need to try and get to my room without Mummy seeing me, tell her I didn't feel well or something"

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest once more, as was customary of him, but decided to hold his tongue as he too was exhausted from the night's affairs.

Sherlock took the lead as he had mastered getting in and out the house without his parents knowing. The younger Holmes quietly opened the front door and Mycroft limped inside and then Sherlock helped Mycroft up the stairs – much to both of their dismays. Once they got to Mycroft's room, the elder Holmes pulled away from Sherlock and burst into his abode.

"Mycroft…" Sherlock started more timidly than he would have liked. His brother just glanced back at him.

"Not now, Sherlock" Mycroft said wearily as he sat on the end of his bed, wincing slightly as he placed a protective arm across his chest.

"You...you need help with anything?" Sherlock asked as he looked down and scuffed his feet on the floor.

"No, I'm fine" Mycroft insisted, although neither of them believed it. "Just tell Mummy what I said, and we shall discuss this in the morning."

"Alright" Sherlock mumbled as he slipped out and closed the door to give Mycroft some privacy.

Once alone, Sherlock let out a huff of air he had not even realised he had been holding and rested his forehead against the wall – this was not supposed to happen. Inside the room, Mycroft was holding his aching head in trembling hands and thinking the same thing.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Hello everyone! A slightly shorter chapter to finish this story off, thank you so much for your lovely reviews, they really are encouraging :) I hope you enjoy and I apologise for any issues with characterisation. Also, warning for one use of explicit language.**

**Please leave a review if you have the time :) xx**

**P.S. I am looking for any prompts you guys might have for Sherlock and Mycroft stories. Leave them in a review or PM me if you have any ideas!**

* * *

Mycroft woke up the following morning face down in the pillow, a low groan escaping his lips. He felt very stiff and his injuries still ached, but at least any bleeding seemed to have stopped. He glanced over at his clock with one eye open and saw it was almost midday; he had never slept in so late in his life! Maybe he really was concussed…

The elder Holmes sat up and raised a hand to his head as he closed his eyes. Maybe he should just stay in bed…but there was work to be done and he had important matters to discuss with Sherlock. So, with great reluctance Mycroft finally dragged himself from his lovely warm bed and went to get washed and dressed – which took a painstakingly long time in his current condition. Luckily, Mummy and Father had already gone to work, so he would not have to put up with their questioning just yet.

By the time Mycroft got downstairs he decided he was getting a little peckish, but as he headed to the kitchen there was a distinct burnt smell wafting down the halls. Mycroft wrinkled his nose in displeasure as he entered to find Sherlock waving a tea towel around in hope of clearing the looming cloud of smoke.

"What on _earth _are you doing?" Mycroft asked as he sloped in.

"Trying to make breakfast, obviously" Sherlock said dully as he threw the towel in the sink.

"I take it didn't go well" Mycroft said, all thoughts of hunger going out his mind at the horrible stale odour. He placed a hand on his ribs and grimaced as he took a seat at the table which did not go unnoticed by Sherlock.

"Obviously" the younger Holmes said again and Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"Only you could nearly burn the house down making toast, Sherlock"

"Fine, I'll never try to do you a favour ever again" Sherlock said sulkily as he sat opposite his brother at the table and took to pouring them tea instead.

"You did that for me?" Mycroft asked; a little surprised as his brother's admittance to selflessness and for _Mycroft's _benefitnone the less.

"Well ever since what happened last night I've had this horrible clenching feeling in my stomach" Sherlock complained. "It's not hunger, it's different…"

"Guilt" Mycroft suggested with an amused smirk.

"No, that can't be it" Sherlock said with a dismissive wave of his hand "But none the less, I thought you'd appreciate some food, for my benefit too, you're always ten times worse when you're hungry"

Mycroft rolled his eyes once more "Thank you, Sherlock" he said sarcastically.

"Anyway, I severely dislike this feeling and it won't go away" the younger Holmes said with a furrowed brow as he sunk back in his chair to think.

"I'm telling you, it's guilt" Mycroft said as he took a sip of tea and Sherlock looked at him pensively. "You feel bad I was injured and you took my money and you feel bad that you worried Mummy and are deceiving her. You feel bad for using drugs"

"I…" Sherlock started but the snapped his mouth shut, his nostrils flaring as he let out a deep breath. "I don't feel bad when I'm _using_ the drugs" he muttered.

"Circumstantial pleasure" Mycroft stated. "You might think they give you the release you want, Sherlock, but really they have little effect on your emotions and only take a great toll on your body"

"But…" Sherlock went to argue once more, although he seemed more defeated than ever now. He knew that taking drugs was wrong but it made him feel almost…_normal. _"I just find it hard sometimes" he mumbled.

"As do I" Mycroft confessed much to his brother's surprise; Sherlock thought his brother functioned impeccably all the time. "Sherlock, there is nothing wrong with us, you understand that, right?" Sherlock did not give any gesture of acknowledgment. "It's just the way we are" Mycroft explained "and just because our brains work differently to everyone else's doesn't mean we're alien"

"Why are you being nice to me?" Sherlock asked suddenly, taking Mycroft aback for a moment.

"Well I…" Mycroft started, but paused.

Why was he saying all this? He was not usually one to offer comfort, and yet here he was sat looking at the little boy who use to follow him around the house none stop, requesting stories and silly pirate games, and wondering what happened to that sweet and innocent child. Sherlock had lost his way, and deep down Mycroft felt partly responsible for just leaving like he did, so it was his responsibility and duty as an older brother to steer his little brother back onto the right path.

"I don't want you to think that you can't have a perfectly happy life being who you are" Mycroft finally said. "You've made some bad, stupid choices recently Sherlock, no surprise since _I am_ the smart one" he added with a light smirk and Sherlock rolled his eyes. "But I know that I should have called you more and visited more often and I'm sorry I didn't. However, if you really felt so low as to turn to drugs you could have called me and I would have listened"

"Well I didn't think that way" Sherlock said quietly, regressing into his shell for once. "I thought I could handle it on my own, I don't want to be reliant on you, but then you got involved anyway, and you got hurt…" his voice caught suddenly and a look of shock and disgust spread across his face – he could not lose control in front of _Mycroft._

"Sherlock, it's alright" Mycroft reassured him. "I'm okay, really, and you're going to be too, I promise. I'll get you help"

"I don't want help!" Sherlock slammed his tea cup back down on the table and stood up, now desperately trying to mask any earlier sign of weakness. "I knew you'd just want to cart me off to some bloody rehab centre, to some therapist who really couldn't give a _shit_ if I…"

"Sherlock!" Mycroft raised his voice ever so slightly and that was enough to silence the younger Holmes; Mycroft hardly ever raised his voice. "You're getting a head of yourself; I would only do those things if you wanted me too. I wouldn't force you into anything" the older Holmes explained calmly.

"Really?" Sherlock said a little apprehensively.

"Really" Mycroft said firmly, and with that his younger brother sat back down again.

"I wish you would go to the hospital" Sherlock said as he observed the way Mycroft was unconsciously rubbing his sore ribs.

Mycroft opened his mouth to insist he was fine again, but then realised that was the exact same thing he had just scolded Sherlock for – not admitting when he needed help. So, Mycroft decided it might be time to set a better example than he had been recently.

"I think that would be a wise decision" he finally said, and Sherlock blinked with surprise for a few moments.

"Right I'll erm…I'll go with you" the younger Holmes finally offered.

Mycroft gave him a light smile "I would appreciate that very much"

* * *

Mycroft was bandaged up and given some medication for the pain at the hospital, but as he already knew there was no serious damage, just some time for rest and healing needed. When Violet arrived home that night to see the state of her son she could have cried with worry, and it took Mycroft a good hour to assure her he was going to be absolutely fine and the people who 'mugged' him were taken care of.

Over the following few days Mycroft spent most of his time in bed reading, more due to his mother's commandment that he rested than for his own pleasure, but he had to admit it was sort of nice. Sherlock would come up to see him at times and then leave in a huff after Mycroft beat him once again at a game of deductions.

They spoke very little about what had happened and about if Sherlock was going to give up the drugs or not, Mycroft knew it best not to push him, although there was no doubt in his mind he would heighten his brother's surveillance when he was back at the office.

The morning Mycroft was due to return back to London he sorted out some paperwork on the kitchen table before heading up to his room to get the rest of his things. When he arrived, he was surprised to find a beautiful looking umbrella resting on his pillow along with a note.

Mycroft went over and picked up the brolly, running his fingers over its smooth sleek handle and admiring the soft stitched fabric - it must have cost quite a bit. He picked up the note and instantly recognised his brother's fast sprawled writing.

_Because yours got broken and I know how much it meant to you even if you won't admit it. _

_Thank you I suppose,_

_Sherlock_

_P.S. I got the money for it by doing some work for Mummy in the garden; ask her if you don't believe me._

Mycroft chuckled lightly at his brother's childish nature, but it really was a fine umbrella and he was touched Sherlock would actually do such a thing for him.

The elder Holmes then finished his packing and headed downstairs, suitcase in one hand and newly required umbrella hanging off the wrist of the other. Violet and Siger were already waiting at the front of the house to say goodbye to their son and a car was waiting outside. Mycroft could not help but be a little disappointed Sherlock did not appear to be around.

After a bone crushing hug and wet kisses from his mother, and hand shake and a smile from his father, Mycroft left his childhood home and started walking down the gravel path.

"Mycroft!" a voice called from the house, and he spun around to find Sherlock practically hanging out of his bedroom window. "I'll…can I call you if I…you know" it was awkward, but Mycroft understood.

"Of course, brother mine" Mycroft said with a soft smile "And you're welcome to come and stay with me for a while if things get too much here"

And then a rare thing – Sherlock smiled back at him, and it was the first time Mycroft remembered seeing his brother look genuinely happy in a long time.

"Oh, and thanks for the umbrella" Mycroft said, raising the handle.

"Oh, yeah, whatever" Sherlock said nonchalantly and shrugged his shoulders – it seemed their moment of brotherly sentiment was over. "See you around, Fatcroft"

"Bye you little nuisance" Mycroft replied with an amused smirk before turning around and getting into the car.

He never saw the sadness in Sherlock's eyes as the younger boy watched his big brother leave once more.


End file.
